Prayers for the Weak, Tears for the Strong
by W33MU
Summary: Seeing spirits borders on crippling for John Watson. What changes when he meets the man in the hoodie? Only time will tell. AU
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_****All Sherlock Holmes characters belong to their respective owner(s). **

_Rainy day._

_Compluentem extra, meus amicus…_

_Rain, rain, John, rain._

Whispers slithered in and out of John's ears. He shook his head vigorously for the fourth time that morning, trying to drown the sounds of the spirits out with the repetitive movement. Raindrops slapped angrily against the windows, creating white noise that could never be loud enough. The reflection in the mirror rippled with consciousness and the whispers grew louder.

_Rain, John, rain and clouds, can you see. Can you see._

He breathed in damp air and wiped the last bit of toothpaste off the corner of his mouth, blinking away the misty images in the mirror. The things had become more aggressive lately, speaking louder and dancing recklessly in his sight, grotesque and unashamed.

Seeing spirits was not normal. Not to the halfling fortune tellers, not to the demon prisoners in the city's underground jail, not to the dying humans with bullets through their faces that John would sometimes comfort in the hospital emergency room.

Only after returning from the war had he begun to see them. They had started as outlines, vague shapes floating in the air and phasing into the ground, never speaking or giving any indication as to what they were. John told his therapist about them; she told him it was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and that talking about it would help. It didn't.

Each day the shapes would grow clearer, and they would start saying things. John used to be able to tune them out, and they would not make sense to his human ears. Now their voices formed words, singing his name throughout day and night, having no regard for his fragile sanity. He could see faces sometimes, the features either incredibly exaggerated or nonexistent, their misshapen bodies roiling like waves in an ocean of intense fear.

After his therapist had asked him to consider visiting a PTSD specialist he stopped talking about the spirits. Occasionally she would ask him if he saw them anymore, and he would shake his head. They would then congregate on the woman's shoulders and laugh silently at John's trembling hands.

Hailing a cab was not going well. John could already feel water draining into his shoes, and he cursed under his breath. A smokey spirit reminiscent of a crocodile bared its black teeth at him, hissing words in a language he could not understand. Another cab sped past him, spraying dirty rainwater onto his face and clothes, making him sputter and swear loudly.

He started toward the back road that the cabs would always drive through when he told them to take him to the hospital. The ex-army doctor figured he could walk to work, as the drive was never more than six or seven minutes long, and he had never been late in the year that he had worked there so far. Punctuality was something the army had beaten into him.

Street lamps cast an ugly yellow glow onto the ground, as if trying to compensate for the lack of sunlight. John made his way down the pavement as quickly as he could in his soaked trousers, which had started to rub uncomfortably against his inner thighs.

Taking the first right as he remembered the cab always did, he forced his face to relax. A scowl had formed in response to the chafing of his legs and now his ankles. His work shoes were not particularly good for walking, as if that was news to him. He had gotten blisters once at work after running between the room of a patient that had gone into cardiac arrest and her mentally unstable mother.

The lizard-like spirit rolled along beside him, occasionally popping forward as if trying to race the tired man. Another thin silhouette bounced above John's head, grunting every time he took a step. Yet another humanoid spirit floated a few feet in front of him, never passing him and never getting closer. His mind began to swirl with hazy irritation at the things and the rain. If only they would go away, if only it hadn't been raining, if only he could sleep at night. Their songs were never silent, keeping him awake the few hours he was given for sleep. Having a day shift in an emergency room was supposed to be lucky, but for John it was torture. Ghosts came out at night, distracting and terrifying, erasing all chance of rest for the doctor. An angry shout burst from his mouth and he stopped in his tracks, pressing his now throbbing head tightly between his hands.

"Oh dear, what are you doing out there in the rain?" A high-pitched voice cut into John's aggravated episode, carrying tinnily over the spirits' giggles. John lifted his face toward the sound, backing up to see around a heavy-set spirit slowly raising itself up from the ground. "Come in, before you catch cold!" The petite woman gestured fervently at John, her wispy hair bobbing with the motion as she stood in the doorway of what seemed to be a small flat building. John wasted no thought as to who she was and obliged, his mind fuzzy with frustration and pain.

"Oh, please tell me you didn't go out there of your own will, dear," the woman muttered, taking John's jacket and frowning at the puddle forming on the doormat. "You're completely soaked, what were you thinking?" She began to grab at his jumper, sparking his ability to think back into working order.

"Ah, no, no thank you, I'm supposed to be at work," he protested, pulling away. The hallway was small, though, and the woman just gave John a disapproving look.

"Now dear, don't be silly. I'll let you borrow some of my husband's old clothing, I'm sure I still have something…" She disappeared down the narrow hallway faster than her elderly body should have been able to. John simply stood there, his brain still buzzing. A ghastly-looking spirit with bruises covering its transparent body hovered at the base of the stairs leading up. It moaned quietly. _Shut it_, John thought, glaring through the apparition's gray form.

"Oh, oh, here we are!" the older woman exclaimed from another room. John felt as if her voice was coming from all sides. She emerged again from the hall, holding a pair of khaki trousers and a worn dress shirt. "They're old and just a tad dusty, but you won't mind that, dear, will you?" She smiled and beckoned him into the hall. "You can use the washroom to change, it's right down here, next to the kitchen. I'll put a kettle on."

She practically pushed John into the washroom, allowing him no time to argue. After shutting the door, John placed the clothing on the floor and wrinkled his brow. The pulse in his head had quieted a bit, giving him more room to think.

_ What a tragedy, can't even keep control of my own mind_.

Pulling off his jumper, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and flinched at the sight of the bruised ghost gaping at him. He could not imagine becoming accustomed to the sight of dead souls; insanity would come first. The dress shirt was in fact quite dusty, causing John to sneeze twice after putting it on. It seemed long on him, as did the trousers, but they weren't falling off, so they would do, even if his pants were still damp. Taking another look at his reflection to make sure his hair wasn't sticking up, he breathed in slowly and let himself back into the hallway. The spirit by the stairs began to moan louder, following John into the kitchen where the older woman was pouring tea.

"Oh good, they do fit! Sit down, dear, how do you take your tea?" she quipped, placing two sugars in both cups as if she could not care less what he would say. John cleared his throat.

"I, uh, where…" he mumbled. The woman glanced at the rumpled clothing in Jon's hands.

"Ah, of course, I'll lay these on the shower," she said. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson, dear, and don't fret about the clothes." Mrs. Hudson shuffled through another doorway, leaving John to stand awkwardly alone in the tiny kitchen with only the bruised spirit's moans to keep him company.

_ There's absolutely no way I'm getting to work on time today_, John thought, examining the taupe walls of the hallway. A thumping noise seemed to be echoing around him in much the same way the moaning was, except more solid and irregular. Each time there was a thump, the ghost would moan louder. After taking a quick sip of the tea so as not to insult Mrs. Hudson, he slipped into the hall and placed a foot on the first step. The spirit was staring at him from the kitchen doorway now, its pupil-less eyes unwavering and unsettling. Another thump. This time it sounded as if it were coming from above. John shook his head and continued up the stairs, balling his fists instinctively.

The aggressive gesture was a bad habit left over from when John would walk in on Harry drinking. His sister would start by shooting sarcastic comments about John's single status or, on a bad day, the scar on his shoulder. John would prepare to wrestle the bottle away from her while reminding her of her sober vows, hands clenched to temporarily pause his trembling. Wisps of spirits would dance over Harry's head as if mocking her drunken movements. Words would fly. Shouting, then bruises. Tears. A night of worry.

Such is life.

_ Thump_. John stared at the door, slightly ajar, noise coming from behind it. He pushed it open without thinking, hands still tense, brows scrunched down.

Inside was a mess, a spectacular mess, one that John had not seen the likes of before. Books were stacked into small towers in various spots, and countless papers were scattered across any flat surface available. One wall was covered in news clippings, another in what looked like stab marks and bullet holes. John blinked and moved forward a bit, catching sight of various scientific instruments on a small table.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He jumped, whipping around in the direction of the voice. There was a nondescript lump of fabric piled on a leather couch, moving steadily up and down with breath.

"I'm sorry?" replied John, cocking his head and furrowing his brow even more. The lump turned over and John was faced with a man in pajamas and a hoodie, laying on his side in what looked like a very uncomfortable spinal twist.

"Afghanistan. Iraq. Which one was it?" The man's eyes were hidden by the hood, though his mouth was incredibly distinct, as was the voice coming from it. He untwisted himself, sitting up and flashing bright blue irises at John.

"How did you…"

"The tan line on your wrists, your gait, the way you're standing. It's all quite obvious, really," the man replied haughtily. John could now see nearly-black curls peeking out from underneath the hood, and he took a second to register that the object in the lanky stranger's hand was a hammer. As the man stood, John's clenched hands tightened even further, and he felt a twinge of fear of the taller figure.

"How quaint, an ex-soldier alarmed by little old me. Your survival instincts are well and intact, you should be proud. Now move, you're standing on my insect variation research." He waved a bony hand at John. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson is missing her newest lost kitten."

"Excuse me, lost?" John glared at the back of the man's hoodie as he dropped his hammer onto the couch and gathered up the papers at their feet.

"Clearly."

"Yeah, okay. And who the hell are you to know?" scoffed John. The stranger continued shuffling papers, turning so John could see bright blue eyes flickering with amusement.

"Your self-preservation instincts have disappeared, you really are a soldier," the man murmured.

"Sherlock, have you seen –"

"In here, Mrs. Hudson," the tall man sighed, tossing the papers on top of a teetering stack of encyclopedias. John turned to see Mrs. Hudson push the door farther open and smile.

"Oh, there you are, the tea will go cold!" She beckoned him out, but John stood defiantly in the flat. He an odd feeling that if he left, this strange man would win something over him, and that his honor would be somehow compromised. He crossed his arms. Mrs. Hudson looked from John to the other man and frowned. "Sherlock, you didn't insult our guest, did you? Don't mind him, dear, he's just grumpy from being inside all week." The elderly woman beckoned John out again. This time he stepped toward the open doorway, taking a second to glance back at the hooded man. He was slender, and so very graceful; each sinewy movement was either grand and sweeping or incredibly subtle. Eyes of ice flickered over John.

"Make sure he doesn't get lost on the way downstairs, Mrs. Hudson," the man said, his voice low and laced in sarcasm. John opened his mouth to reply, but remembered that he was supposed to be at the hospital. Thinking better of it, he kept his acidic retort to himself and followed Mrs. Hudson toward the stairs.

"That Sherlock, he can be so rude sometimes," she muttered, stepping carefully. "I called up a cab for you, dear, hope you don't mind!" Mrs. Hudson disappeared past the kitchen before John reached the bottom of the stairs, where he was greeted by the bruised spirit from earlier. It moaned in anguish as he walked through it. John suddenly felt like he had missed something.

"Here you are, hopefully you'll know to stay out of the rain this time." Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hallway again, this time holding a maroon umbrella.

"Oh no, I'll be fine," John replied, doing his best to smile sincerely. The elderly woman shook her head and forced the umbrella into his hand.

"This is for your own good!" A car horn beeped outside and Mrs. Hudson waved John toward the door. The spirit attempted to follow him out, but could not go past the threshold, and instead moaned loud enough to make John wince. He rushed into the cab and waved at Mrs. Hudson weakly as the vehicle pulled away from the pavement. What was it about that stranger knowing about his past that made his stomach quiver? What had he missed?

Flashing lights washed away the color in a dripping bird-shaped ghost outside the hospital emergency wing parking lot. Sirens echoed in the wet walls of heavy rain, and frenzied police officers and EMTs scurried around ambulances with nervous excitement. John climbed out of the taxi, opening the umbrella to protect the clothes that did not belong to him. A man with hair too grey for his age glanced at John before turning back to the officer he had been speaking to.

He was met with chaos once inside the emergency room. Gloves and scrubs were shoved into his hands almost immediately, and a shout of "She's going into cardiac arrest!" bounced off the walls of the crowded hospital wing. Stretcher after stretcher rattled past. A wisp began to rise from one patient's stomach, her ears soaked red, her left eye entirely obliterated. A shard of glass the size of a cigarette box was lodged deep in her jaw, the tip glistening above her cheek, reflecting masked faces and bloody latex gloves.

Brekton shouted for more morphine. John moved forward, pressing his hand to the gauze on the woman's hip, scurrying alongside the other doctors like a pack of ants with a particularly large crumb. The wisp fell as the woman received injections. John helped remove her scorched clothing with scissors. More glass. More blood.

She convulsed as they attempted to lift her from the gurney, the wisp again rising out of her shaking body. John's eyes began to water with frustration. It was a bubbling ghost, one with black eyes and a worm-like shape, its movements random and unsettling. John wanted to shout at it, to scream profanities in an attempt to send it back into the woman's dying body, but he was frozen, hand pressed into the clump of blood-soaked gauze. The shouting around him dissolved into shrill ringing. Only the ghost's swirling gaze was in focus, its face twisting upside down as it stared through John's petrified body.

"What the hell are you doing, Watson?" Samson shrieked as she shoved John from the gurney's side. He stumbled, eyes still fixed on the roiling form as it attempted to wrench itself free of the dying woman's body. Brekton called for the defibrillator. A shaky intern took John by the arm and pulled him from the crowded mayhem as snaps of electricity were being sent through the woman; his stomach turned with nausea as the ghost popped free of its bind and swam through the air above the frantic medics' heads.

"This is the third time in two months, John." Sarah folded her hands on her desk and stared at him. "If you can't find a way to stop this…"

John set his mouth in a grimace.

"You're going to lose your job, John," she continued, her eyebrows lowering with heightening concern. John turned his eyes to the desk. He needed the income, he needed to work. Spacing out caused problems with efficiency, as was obvious by the impatient look on the other doctor's face. Sarah waited for a few seconds, then sighed.

"You should take a week's leave, unpaid. Figure this out, maybe get some help." She pushed a few papers toward him. "Talk to your therapist, perhaps? Do some research?"

"Yeah," he grunted, his voice noncommittal and raspy. He had not been at the hospital for an hour, yet felt exhausted beyond words. Sleep seemed worthless, as did making an appointment. All they would do is talk about meditation strategies anyway.

It was no longer raining, and hailing a cab a block down from the hospital was easy enough. John asked the driver to take him to the library. A bit of research may do his mind some good, even if it was simply a distraction. An oozing ghost sat in the seat next to him, forming and reforming with every bump on the road.

Mahogany shelves housed dozens of books on mental illness, taunting John with their height and smooth perfection. They reminded him of his childhood kitchen table, where he would smile and eat and laugh with his mother and sister, without a care in the world. He perused the titles, picking up one particularly thick volume on schizophrenia. He absentmindedly scanned the summary and the author's qualifications, only to set it back into the shelf among the others.

"Perhaps you would do better in the supernatural section." A familiar voice rolled over John from his left. He snapped his head up to see the man from earlier. This time he was in black slacks and had a beautifully made coat over his gray sweatshirt. His head was still hidden in the soft fabric. "Schizophrenia is very different from what you suffer." Blue eyes once more flickered over John.

"How..?"

"Don't give me that again, I can see it in your face and your hands and the way you can't quite focus on any one thing for long," the man groaned, placing the manual he had been flipping through back into its place. "I truly do wonder what it's like to not notice when you can't see anything."

The man began to walk away, but John grabbed his arm, making him stop. There was no movement from either of them for a few seconds.

"Who are you and how can you tell all these things about me?" asked John, a slight quiver in his voice. He was not afraid, but intrigued, and had the strangest feeling of anticipation rising in his gut. There was something very special about this stranger.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and I simply see and deduce. Let go." He tugged his sleeve out of John's hand and turned to look him in the eyes. "I wonder what it's like in that funny little brain of yours, it must be much more pleasantly boring now."

It was then that John realized he could not see any spirits. There were none rising from the floor, none floating in the library shelves. His mind felt clear and fresh; the usual buzzing irritation brought on by the spirit-voices was gone, leaving him free to think, or not think. He brought his gaze back to Sherlock's face.

"I don't understand," he whispered. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling a black smartphone from a pocket in his coat.

"Well, it has been a while since I've seen her," he said as he poked the screen a few times. His eyebrow twitched upwards, as if inviting John to inquire what he meant.

"What are you talking about?" John shifted his weight, balling his fists with building nervousness. The absence of the spirits was eerie, in a way, and he felt vulnerable with this stranger who seemed to know without asking the most secret aspects of John's life.

Silence again. Sherlock's eyes met John's, chilling him with an almost inhuman intensity.

"Would you care to find out?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and other characters belong to their rightful owners.**

* * *

Buildings rolled by in a gray procession of concrete and brick, touching the overcast sky with their inorganic shapes. People passed, hazily silhouetted against London's streets. The clarity was astounding; John could not take his eyes away from the window. It had been so long since he could watch the changing faces of those on the sidewalk, so long since the city showed itself without the clutter of dead souls.

"Stop here." The phrase jolted John out of his daze. Sherlock climbed out of the cab, black coat swinging and hood seemingly anchored to his head. Following without delay, John breathed in deeply, wet air filling his lungs. Not sparing a second to check if the shorter man was ready, Sherlock strode off, crossing the pavement swiftly and with integrity. He turned sharply at one of the brick corners, disappearing behind the building within seconds. John furrowed his brow and jogged after, glancing around at unfamiliar shops, all exotic-looking, all dark. John turned at the corner and was faced with an alley, in which Sherlock stood squarely in front of a tall, thick door, removing his gloves and reaching up to knock.

"Where are we?" asked John, moving closer to Sherlock, his shoulder nearly touching the man's back. Sherlock did not answer and instead rapped the door harshly with his bare knuckles. A buzzing sound came from inside the door, and a few seconds later, a small woman in a plaid ruffled blouse answered, her face red with cold.

"S-Sherlock," stuttered the woman, eyes fluttering in surprise.

"Spare me the pleasantries, Molly," sighed Sherlock as he stuffed his gloves into a coat pocket. The woman dropped her gaze.

"Nice to see you too," she grumbled, beckoning the two in. John hesitated in the alley, the familiar feeling of anxiety passing into his mind again. Sherlock glanced back at him, rolled his eyes, then continued forward through the dark entrance. Balling his fists, John followed, pushing his civilian fear out with a stoic soldier mindset.

The hallway was clean beyond belief, mahogany surfaces varnished to shining perfection. There was a faint smell of incense mixing with a feminine perfume, creating a heady mix of earthen and floral notes. A rosy haze slightly clouded John's vision. Molly turned around and meekly waved them into a white-walled room where another woman in a draping sheer robe sat primly on a low couch.

The first time John had ever seen a half-demon was at the site of his father's arrest. Public intoxication had led to assault, landing the drunken man in handcuffs; he was not in jail for more than a day because of whom he had attacked. Memories of the person's bleeding forehead flashed through John's mind, images of a broken horn smashed into pieces on the pavement revisiting him like a forgotten enemy. This woman's horns were not broken, though, and laid smooth on her head, both colored an ashen maroon, contrasting deeply with her pale skin. John clenched his fists ever tighter. A smirk pulled at her scarlet lips when she looked up from her mobile phone. Smoke rose from wooden sticks in oil, and John realized he was in a fortune teller's home.

"You've brought a friend," she said, standing and extending a hand to John. Sherlock did not move from in front of her, however, instead staring down at the much shorter woman.

"I don't have friends." He removed his black coat and threw it onto a single-seat couch to the side of the center table, then turned to John. "Though he does have questions. Meet Irene Adler, John."

"Hang on -," started John, but was cut off by the slamming of the door behind them. Sherlock sat on the couch and yanked John down onto the cushioned chair across from where Irene had been sitting.

"Not those questions," he muttered. Irene smiled coyly, then returned to her seat, pulling a deck of cards from underneath the table. Her robe moved soundlessly with each of her movements, sliding lightly over pale arms and shoulders.

"Mr. Watson, would you care for some tea?" she asked as she placed the deck of cards in front of him. They were plain black, without the designs and logos of normal cards. John swallowed.

"Um." He looked over at Sherlock, who shook his head ever so slightly, corners of his mouth downturned. "No, thank you," said John, shifting in the chair. He began to question his judgement back in the library, and wondered what had made him think that taking a cab with a complete stranger to a fortune teller was a good idea. Irene tapped the deck.

"Please."

John stared at her for a few seconds, not knowing what it was she wanted him to do. She raised her eyebrows impatiently.

"Shuffle!"

He picked up the deck and paused. Fortune telling was a mysterious subject to him, but he had heard frightening stories of humans being killed by demons soon after visiting a teller. Another flutter of nerves made him glance up at Irene, her face entirely unreadable. Sherlock crossed his legs as John began shuffling the cards and the sound of a kettle whistling came faintly from outside the room. He placed the deck back on the table in front of the teller, glancing again at Sherlock, who seemed very interested in the dirt beneath his fingernails. Irene began to draw cards from the deck, laying them out in a carefully-constructed cross on the table, adjusting each so that they lined up perfectly.

"Tea, anyone?" The door behind John opened and he turned to see Molly carrying a tray with a kettle and four teacups. Irene waved her over and flipped up the center card.

"The High Priestess," she said, her face blank. "She represents mysteries of the unconscious."

John blinked and frowned, waiting for Irene to explain further what the card meant. Instead she flipped the card nearest him and smiled.

"The Ace of Cups." Again there was no explanation, but when John glanced to Sherlock, he saw a flicker of confusion in the man's face.

"What does that mean?" asked John as Molly set a cup of tea on a saucer next to him.

"It's the seed of love," whispered Molly. She straightened up and gave John an uncomfortable smile, then left the room, slamming the door behind her. John wrinkled his brow. This fortune telling business made no sense to him. The third card Irene overturned was nearest to Sherlock.

"The Two of Swords," said Irene, her eyes shifting to the side. Again confusion passed over Sherlock's eyes, this time far more obviously. The teller wasted no time in flipping the card nearest herself, her eyes widening. "The Chariot! Dearest soldier, it seems you have much to address within your heart."

John took a sip from his tea as Irene overturned the final card. Sherlock twitched forward, opening his mouth to say something, but the teller interrupted him.

"The Seven of Swords has shown itself. Tell me, John, how long have you been seeing spirits?" she asked, reaching underneath the table with one hand and placing a finger on the center card. Sherlock jumped up.

"You were not supposed to drink the tea, John!" he shouted, grabbing the ex-soldier by the arm. John's head began to swim, and shapes began to form above the fortune teller's head, her demure smile shifting into a twisted grin. He blinked hard, trying to focus, but the shapes grew clearer, and he found himself utterly smothered in various ghosts, all vicious, tugging at his insides. Sherlock forced John to stand, shouting something that the doctor could no longer understand. Horrid laughter filled his ears; everywhere he looked, another spirit opened up, showing him terrifying abyss that threatened to suck him in. He caught sight of a syringe in the fortune teller's hand before his mind lost all awareness.


End file.
